


For Tomorrow

by conclude



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood, Dismemberment, Dissociation, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Misuse of OxyClean, Post-Episode: s01e20 Like Father ..., Sort Of, Spoilers for Episode: s01e20 Like Father ..., sibling bonding via murder, this is technically canon compliant and im angry about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:47:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29321136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conclude/pseuds/conclude
Summary: Blood isn’t easy to get rid of. It takes hours, down on your hands and knees, gloves growing sticky with sweat. Bleach, a toothbrush, rags. (Oxygen bleach, to be specific). There’s a single mindedness to it, only furthered by the growing mental fog from the fumes. Get it done. Get it done now, before it’s too late.(Ainsley has a breakdown, and Malcolm is fine. Absolutely fine.)
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	For Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally going to be much longer. It got cut down bc I was having issues with a connecting scene and now classes have started back up so I'm just posting this and calling it a day. 
> 
> Warnings for canon character death, some description of corpses, somewhat graphic description of dismemberment, and dissociation/dissociative episodes. Blood comes up a few times.

Blood isn't easy to get rid of. It takes hours, down on your hands and knees, gloves growing sticky with sweat. Bleach, a toothbrush, rags. (Oxygen bleach, to be specific). There's a single mindedness to it, only furthered by the growing mental fog from the fumes. Get it done. Get it done now, before it's too late.

Before the bleach, there's the crinkle of plastic, the sensation of carpet underneath it. He remembers the phone call, but not when he hung up, if it was him who hung up, not his father. But it _was_ him who cut up Endicott. _He_ paused to wrench bone from bone as if he were carving up a chicken. _He_ tightened his hand around the saw, and _he_ stood over Eve's killer, forcing back some emotion he refused to name.

Malcolm's never going to be able to look at OxyClean again without feeling sick. He can still smell it, feel it in the desert-dry state of his nose. But the house is clean, the furniture unstained, the evidence gone, except for the three final bags.

Ainsley looks pristine as well, except for the water dripping from her hair. It hits the ground with a soft drip, drip, drip. It's steady, a metronome for their silence. Her interlaced fingers clench tighter. Malcolm exhales slowly, trying to find something to say.

"Are you okay?" he asks. It falls flat, awkward when they're a mere six feet from where Endicott died. He grimaces, dried blood pulling at his cheeks, and has to resist the urge to wipe at it. He's already washed his hands.

Ainsley starts, eyes drifting away from the couch. Her head dips lower, until her thumbs press against her forehead. "You... killed him," she says, slowly. Disbelieving. Her hands drop, and she looks up, staring at him through clumps of hair. Maybe he tenses-- he's exhausted and it's hard to tell-- because Ainsley notices something. Her demeanor softens.

"He deserved it," she adds. For his benefit, not hers. "It's a good thing." Malcolm nods. She hasn't told him what happened before he arrived. It sits heavy in his stomach. Did she even remember? Or was she unwilling to talk about it?

"Thanks," he says, stretching his hand for a moment. It's still shaking. Hard to say why; he doesn't feel upset. He hasn't felt upset in awhile when he thinks about it. He's detached, stuck miles away. Maybe that's a bad sign, but he has obligations. He can consider it later. "Don't tell anyone you saw him tonight."

"Of course not," Ainsley says. She meets his eyes, "You saved me." Malcolm nods again, glancing downward.

"Yeah," he says. A drop of water hits the wood, then another. "I should go. There's still things I have to do." He stands, taking one last look at Ainsley. She's trembling.

Earlier, it was worse. He'd led her up the stairs, answering her few questions with sharp, short answers. Her eyes dulled when they reached the bathroom. She didn't respond when he directed her to clean up. Her hands had dropped like a doll's when he finished wiping the worst of the blood from them. She didn't flinch, didn't move, and if he wasn't looking for it, didn't appear to breathe.

He had to wait until her eyes found their way back to his, until she could shake her head in response to his questions. Then he coaxed her into taking a shower while he went back downstairs. By the time he returned, her hands were an irritated red, and her nails had been cut short, but she was clean.

He shouldn't leave her now. It's a bad idea, but there's a murder weapon on the coffee table, wrapped in linen and plastic. The blade is chipped, cracked where it must have glanced off a rib. It's evidence. Endicott's body has been handled, but he couldn't do anything about the pieces of metal trapped within the wounds. He can't let the knife be found. It'll implicate them, more than any other individual piece of evidence.

He has to take care of their clothes, and the carpet, stinking of bleach and stained with flecks of brown. Luminol and Phenolphthalein will be tested against them, but he's covered his bases. If they find any evidence of blood, it would typically be in the seams, where the bleach doesn't reach as thoroughly. Malcolm ripped the stitches out before soaking them. He doesn't know if it'll be enough, or if the haziness of his memory reflects the quality of the work he's done.

The body will be found. Malcolm has to assume that. He won't let his effort go to waste; he has to get rid of everything. So he gets up, heads to the bathroom and wipes the last of the blood away. When he comes back out, he grabs the three bags (carpet, clothes, knife) and goes to leave.

Just before he reaches the door, Ainsley murmurs, almost too soft to hear, "good luck." His lips part. He can change his mind. He can tell her the truth, ending the lies before they build up.

The moment passes, and the door is in front of him, the handle within reach. He presses his lips back together, and opens the door. Ainsley will be fine. He just has to make sure all the evidence is gone before the police return to arrest him for Eddie's murder.


End file.
